by Ian Rankin
“Oh yeah? Trevor Guest ring a bell?”
Cafferty thought for a moment before conceding defeat.
“What about a garage called Keogh’s?”
Cafferty stiffened his shoulders. “I can find things out, Rebus. I’ve got contacts in places that would frighten you.”
“Everything about you frightens me, Cafferty; fear of contamination, I suppose. How come you’re so het up about Colliar?”
Cafferty’s eyes strayed to the whiskey bottle. “Got a spare glass?” he asked.
Rebus fetched one from the kitchen. When he returned, Cafferty was reading Mairie’s covering note.
“I see Ms. Henderson’s been lending a hand.” Cafferty gave a cold smile. “I recognize her handwriting.”
Rebus said nothing; poured a small measure into the glass.
“I prefer malt,” Cafferty complained, wafting the contents under his nose. “What’s your interest in Pennen Industries?”
Rebus ignored this. “You were going to tell me about Cyril Colliar.” Cafferty made to sit down. “Stay on your feet,” Rebus commanded. “You’re not going to be here that long.”
Cafferty knocked back the drink and placed the empty glass on the table. “It’s not Cyril I’m interested in as such,” he admitted. “But when something like that happens...well, rumors get started. Rumors that someone’s out there with a grudge. Never very good for business. As you well know, Rebus, I’ve had enemies in the past.”
“Funny how I never see them anymore.”
“Plenty of jackals out there who’d like a share of the spoils...my spoils.” He stabbed a finger into his own chest.
“You’re getting old, Cafferty.”
“Same as you. But there’s no retirement package in my line of business.”
“And meantime the jackals get younger and hungrier?” Rebus guessed. “And you need to keep proving yourself.”
“I’ve never backed down, Rebus. Never will.”
“It’ll come out soon enough, Cafferty. If there’s no connection between you and the other victims, then there’s no reason for anyone to see it as a vendetta.”
“But meantime...”
“Meantime what?”
Cafferty gave a wink. “Keogh’s Garage and Trevor Guest.”
“Leave them to us, Cafferty.”
“Who knows, Rebus, maybe I’ll see what I can turn up about Pennen Industries, too.” Cafferty started to walk out of the room. “Thanks for the drink and the wee bit of exercise. Think I’ll go join the tail end of the march. Poverty’s always been a great concern of mine.” He paused in the hall, taking in his surroundings. “Never seen it as bad as this though,” he added, heading for the stairwell.
5
The Right Honorable Gordon Brown, MP, chancellor of the exchequer, had already started to speak when Siobhan entered the room. An audience of nine hundred had gathered in the Assembly Hall at the top of the Mound. The last time Siobhan had been there, the place was acting as temporary home to the Scottish parliament, but the parliament now had lavish premises of its own opposite the queen’s residence at Holyrood, leaving the Assembly Hall once again the exclusive property of the Church of Scotland who, along with Christian Aid, had organized the evening’s event.
Siobhan was there for a meeting with Edinburgh’s chief constable, James Corbyn. Corbyn had been in charge just over a year, having replaced Sir David Strathern. There had been mutters of dissent over the appointment. Corbyn was English, a “bean counter,”and “too bloody young.” But Corbyn had proved himself a hands-on copper who made regular visits to the front line. He was seated a few rows back, in full dress uniform, cap resting on his lap. Siobhan knew she was expected so found a space by the doors, content to listen to the chancellor’s vows and pledges. When he announced that Africa’s poorest thirty-eight countries would see a debt write-off, there was spontaneous applause. But when the clapping died down, Siobhan was aware of a voice of dissent. A lone protester had stood up. He was wearing a kilt, and he lifted it to reveal a cut-out picture of Tony Blair’s face on the front of his underpants. Security moved in quickly, and those around the man helped with the process. As he was dragged to the doors, the fresh applause was for security. The chancellor, who had busied himself tidying his notes, continued where he’d left off.
The commotion, however, provided useful cover for James Corbyn to make his move. Siobhan followed him out of the hall and introduced herself. There was no sign of the protester or his captors, just a few civil servants pacing the floor, waiting for their master to finish. They carried document files and cell phones and seemed exhausted by the day’s events.
“DCI Macrae says we have a problem,” Corbyn stated. No niceties; straight to the heart of the matter. He was in his early forties, with black hair parted to the right. Solidly built, just over six feet in height. There was a large mole on his right cheek, which Siobhan had been warned not to stare at.
“Bloody hard to keep eye contact,” Macrae had told her, “with that thing in your sight line...”
“We may have three victims,” she said now.
“And a murder site on the G8’s doorstep?” Corbyn snapped.
“Not exactly, sir. I don’t think we’ll find bodies there, just trace evidence.”
“They’ll be out of Gleneagles by Friday. We can stall the investigation till then.”
“On the other hand,” Siobhan offered, “the leaders don’t start arriving till Wednesday. Three full days away...”
“What are you proposing?”
“We keep things low-key but do as much as we can. Forensics can make a full sweep by then. The one definite victim we have is an Edinburgh guy, no need to go disturbing the bigwigs.”
Corbyn studied her. “You’re a DS, am I right?”
Siobhan nodded.
“Bit junior to be heading something like this.” It didn’t sound like criticism; he was simply stating a fact.
“A DI from my station was with me, sir. We both worked the original inquiry.”
“How much help will you need?”
“I’m not sure much can be spared.”
Corbyn smiled. “It’s a sensitive time, DS Clarke.”
“I appreciate that.”
“I’m sure you do. And this DI of yours...he’s reliable?”
Siobhan nodded, maintaining eye contact, not blinking. Thinking: Maybe he’s too new to have heard of John Rebus...
“Happy to work a Sunday?” he asked.
“Absolutely. Not so sure about the SOCOs.”
“A word from me should help.” He grew thoughtful. “The march passed off without incident...perhaps we’ll have it easier than we feared.”
“Yes, sir.”
His eyes regained their focus. “Your accent’s English,” he remarked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Ever given you problems?”
“A few gibes along the way.”
He nodded slowly. “All right.” Straightening his back. “See what you can get done before Wednesday. Any problems, let me know. But do try not to step on any toes.” He glanced in the direction of the civil servants.
“There’s an SO12 officer called Steelforth, sir. He may raise a few objections.”
Corbyn looked at his watch. “Direct him to my office.” He fixed his braided cap to his head. “Time I was elsewhere...You do realize the enormous responsibility...?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Make sure your colleague gets the message.”
“He’ll understand, sir.”
He held out his hand. “Very well. Let’s shake on it, DS Clarke.”
They shook.
On the radio news, there was a report from the march and, in a postscript, mention that the death of international development minister Ben Webster was “being treated as a tragic accident.” The chief story, however, was the Hyde Park concert. Siobhan had heard plenty of complaints from the hordes gathered at the Meadows. They felt the pop stars would upstage them.
The latest estimate of numbers on the march was 225,000. Siobhan didn’t know how many were at the London concert, but she doubted it was even half that. The nighttime streets were busy with cars and pedestrians. Plenty of buses, too, heading south out of the city. Some of the shops and restaurants she passed had put signs in their windows: WE SUPPORT MAKE POVERTY HISTORY. WE ONLY USE FAIR TRADE PRODUCE. SMALL LOCAL RETAILER. MARCHERS WELCOME. There was graffiti, too: anarchy symbols and messages exhorting the passersby, Activ8, Agit8, Demonstr8. Another statement stated simply, Rome Wasn’t Sacked in One Day. She hoped the chief constable would be proved right, but there was a long way to go.
Buses were parked outside the Niddrie campsite. The tented village had grown. The same guard as the previous night was in charge. She asked him his name.
“Bobby Greig.”
“Bobby, I’m Siobhan. Looks busy tonight.”
He shrugged. “Maybe a couple of thousand. I guess that’s as busy as it’ll get.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“Council’s spent a million on this place—could have given them all a hotel room for that, never mind a spot in the wilderness.” He nodded toward the car she’d just locked. “I see you’ve got a replacement.”
“Borrowed from the garage at St. Leonard’s. Had any more trouble from the natives?”
“Nice and quiet,” he told her. “Dark now, mind...that’s when they come out to play. Know what it feels like in here?” He scanned the compound. “One of those zombie films.”
Siobhan offered a smile. “That makes you mankind’s last great hope, Bobby. You should be flattered.”
“My shift ends at midnight!” he called after her as she made her way to her parents’ tent. There was no one home. She unzipped the opening and looked in. The table and stools had been folded away, sleeping bags rolled tight. She tore a sheet of paper from her notebook and left a message. No sign of life in the surrounding tents either. Siobhan began to wonder if her mum and dad had maybe gone out drinking with Santal.
Santal: last seen at the demonstration in Buccleuch Place. Which meant she might be trouble...might get into trouble.
Listen to yourself, girl! Afraid your trendy leftist parents will be led astray!
She tutted to herself and decided to kill some time walking around the camp. It was little changed from the previous night: a strummed guitar, a cross-legged circle of singers, kids playing barefoot on the grass, cheap food doled out at the big tent. New arrivals, weary after the march, were being handed their wristbands and shown where to pitch camp. There was still some light left in the sky, making a startling silhouette of Arthur’s Seat. She thought maybe she would climb it tomorrow, take an hour to herself. The view from the top was a thrill. Always supposing she could afford an hour to herself. She knew she should call Rebus, let him know the score. He was probably still at home in front of the box. Time enough yet to give him the news.
“Saturday night, eh?” Bobby Greig said. He was standing just behind her, holding a flashlight and his two-way. “You should be out enjoying yourself.”
“Seems to be what my friends are up to.” She nodded in the direction of her parents’ tent.
“I’ll be having a drink myself when I finish,” he hinted.
“I’ve got work tomorrow.”
“Hope you’re on overtime.”
“Thanks for the offer, though...maybe another night.”
He gave a huge shrug. “I’m trying not to feel rejected here.” His radio burst into life with a jolt of static. He raised it to his mouth. “Say again, tower.”
“Here they come again,” came the distorted voice.
Siobhan looked toward the fence, couldn’t make anything out. She followed Bobby Greig toward the gate. Yes: a dozen of them, hooded tops drawn tight around their heads, eyes shaded by baseball caps. No sign of weapons, other than a quart of cheap booze being passed among them. Half a dozen guards had gathered inside the gate, waiting for Greig to give the word. The gang outside was gesturing: Come and have a go. Greig stared back, seeming bored with the performance.
“Should we call it in?” one of the other security men asked.
“No sign of missiles,” Greig replied. “Nothing we can’t handle.”
The gang had steadily been approaching the fence. Siobhan recognized the one in the middle as the leader from Friday night. The mechanic at Rebus’s recommended workshop had said it might end up costing six hundred to fix her car.
“Insurance might do some of it” had been his only crumb of comfort. In reply she’d asked him if he’d ever heard of Keogh’s Garage, but he’d shaken his head.
“Can you ask around?”
He’d said he would do that, then had asked for a deposit. A hundred gone from her bank account, just like that. Five hundred still to go, and here were the culprits, not twenty feet from her. She wished she had Santal’s camera...fire off a few shots and see if anyone at Craigmillar CID could put names to faces. Had to be security cameras around here somewhere...maybe she could...
Sure she could. But she knew she wouldn’t.
“Off you go now,” Bobby Greig was calling out in a firm voice.
“Niddrie’s ours,” the leader spat. “It’s youse should fuck off!”
“Point taken, but we can’t do that.”
“Makes you feel big, eh? Playing babysitter to a bunch of scum.”
“Happy-clappy hippie shit,” one of his followers concurred.
“Thanks for sharing” was all Bobby Greig said.
The leader barked out a laugh; one of the gang spat at the fence. Another joined him.
“We can take them, Bobby,” one of the security men said softly.
“No need to.”
“Fat bastard,” the gang’s leader goaded.
“Fat-ass bastard,” one of his lieutenants added.
“Alky.”
“Pop-eyed baldy ass-licking...”
Greig’s eyes were on Siobhan. He seemed to be making up his mind. She shook her head slowly. Don’t let them win.
“Thieving bastard.”
“Asshole.”
“Bloated schmuck.”
Bobby Greig turned his head toward the guard next to him, gave a brief nod. “Count of three,” he said in an undertone.
“Save your breath, Bobby.” The guard leaped for the gate, his comrades right behind him. The gang scattered but regrouped at the other side of the road.
“Come on then!”
“Any time you like!”
“You want us? Here we are!”
Siobhan knew what they wanted. They wanted the security men to chase them into the labyrinth of streets. Jungle warfare, where local knowledge could defeat firepower. Weapons—ready-made or improvised—could be waiting there. A larger army could be hidden behind hedges and down shadowy alleys. And meantime, the camp was left unguarded.
She didn’t hesitate; called it in on her cell. “Officer requiring assistance.” Brief details of where she was. Two, three minutes, they’d start arriving. Craigmillar cop-shop wasn’t farther away than that. The gang’s leader was bending over, making a show of offering his backside to Bobby Greig. One of Greig’s men accepted the insult on his behalf and ran at the leader, who did what Siobhan had feared: appeared to retreat farther down the walkway.
Into the heart of the housing project.
“Careful!” she warned, but no one was listening. Turning, she saw that some of the campers were watching the action. “Police will be here in a minute,” she assured them.
“Pigs,” one of the campers said in evident disgust.
Siobhan jogged out into the road. The gang really had scattered now; at least, that was what it looked like. She traced Bobby Greig’s route, down the path and into a cul-de-sac. Low-rise blocks all around, some of the last and worst of the old streets. The skeleton of a bike lay on the pavement. A sup
ermarket cart’s carcass sat curbside. Shadows and scuffles and yells. The sound of breaking glass. If there was fighting, she couldn’t see it. Back gardens were the battleground. Stairwells, too. Faces at some of the windows, but they withdrew quickly, leaving only the cold blue glare of TV sets. Siobhan kept walking, checking to left and right. She was wondering how Greig would have acted had she not been there to witness the taunts. Bloody men and their bloody machismo...
End of the street: still nothing. She took a left, then a right. In one front garden, a car sat on bricks. A lamppost had had its cover removed, its wiring ripped out. The place was a bloody maze, and how come she couldn’t hear sirens? She couldn’t hear any yells now either, apart from an argument in one of the houses. A kid on a skateboard came toward her, maybe ten or eleven at most, staring hard at her until he was past. She reckoned she could take a left and be back at the main road. But she entered another cul-de-sac and cursed under her breath—not even a footpath to be seen. Knew the quickest route might be to skirt around the end terrace and climb the fence. Next block over and she’d be back where she started.
Maybe.
“In for a pound,” she said, heading down the cracked paving slabs. There wasn’t much of anything behind the row of houses: weeds and ankle-high grass and the twisted remains of a rotary clothesline. The fence was broken-backed, easy to cross into the next set of back gardens.
“That’s my flower bed,” a voice called in mock complaint. Siobhan looked around. Stared into the milky blue eyes of the gang’s leader.
“Tasty,” he said, eyeing her from top to toe.
“Don’t you think you’re in enough trouble?” she asked.
“What trouble’s that then?”
“It was my car you got at last night.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” He’d taken a step closer. Two shapes behind him to the left and right.
“Your best bet right now’s to start walking,” she warned them. The response: low laughter.
“I’m CID,” she said, hoping her voice would hold up. “Anything happens here, we’re talking a lifetime’s payback.”
“So how come you’re quaking in your boots?”